


After Hours

by Starmouse123



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:34:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22237186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starmouse123/pseuds/Starmouse123
Summary: There’s no good way of saying you’re afraid you’re going to drink yourself into another amnesiac episode if you went home to an empty apartment right now.
Relationships: Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi
Comments: 29
Kudos: 283





	1. Chapter 1

The old converted silk mill does not cut an imposing figure against the Jamrock skyline. It’s just another blocky toad of a building squatting in an unremarkable part of Revachol; a fortress of banal architecture. It’s close to dusk now, and the fading light hides the worst damage to the façade of the building you know is there, brought on by the past war and encroaching old age. A slight breeze worms into the streets as the sun sinks behind the brick and concrete.

You stand outside for a minute before you let your feet carry you into Precinct 41, muscle memory taking hold. It should feel familiar, but it doesn’t. Not yet.

There’s always activity in a building that never sleeps, but this late in the day most of the C-wing team have left for the night. The desk you’re aiming for has no one sitting in front of it, but it’s right across from Judit’s, and she’s at her desk, reading case files.

She doesn’t look up at your approach, but she holds up a finger and continues reading. There’s a second or two to scrutinize the empty desk. No new nameplate yet, no personal effects, but the paper forms and pens organized on the desk are a recent addition.

Finally, Judit raises her head. “Smoke break,” she says, and gestures in the direction of the motor garages.

The garages smell of oil and hot engines, hulking machinery sitting quiet in neat rows. You find Kim leaning against the side of the opened garage door. There are old cigarette butts littering the concrete in the corner – it’s a popular smoke break spot, away from the bustle of the main halls. He’s staring into the twilight, lit cigarette in hand. Thinking, most likely. He does that a lot.

Your footsteps echo on the concrete, and Kim twists at the waist to catch sight of you, pushing off from the wall. He’s wearing his orange bomber jacket, but it’s been unzipped all the way to expose an old white T-shirt and the edge of his shoulder holster.

“Detective,” Kim says, “I thought you went home for the night.”

You had _started_ to walk home for the night. But you’d turned around less than halfway there and made your way back to the Precinct.

There’s no good way of saying you’re afraid you’re going to drink yourself into another amnesiac episode if you went home to an empty apartment right now. Without thinking too hard about it, the best solution at the time was seeking out Kim. His even keel composure is a beacon, and any man drowning in the rocky rapids of his own mind would gravitate to it. It was so easy, back in Martinaise, to lay all your problems out at Kim’s feet, to be brutally honest, but now you’re in Jamrock, and there are _expectations_ hanging over your head.

_You didn’t really think of what to do after you found him, did you, Harry-boy?_

You wave a hand, trying to act cool as you rack your brain for an excuse. “What, I can’t try to hang out with my coworkers after hours? Haven’t you heard of team bonding, Kim?”

Kim has a faint smile on his face. “Oh?” he asks, humoring you, “And what would this team building entail?”

“Karaok-“

“No.” Kim says, and continues smoking.

Damn, he was ready for that one.

What do people usually do with their coworkers? Drinking would be the first option, but that’s a black hole you don’t want Kim to see you go down. In all your time with Kim in Martinaise, there was only one hobby you had managed to coax out of the man – working on his Coupris Kineema.

It’s too bad he had to leave it behind at the 57th when he transferred to Jamrock.

The new halogen headlights are probably sitting unused, gathering dust. Sacrifices he made for _you._

For you? No, he wanted to transfer to the 41st regardless. You had nothing to do with it. No one would do something like that for you.

Kim’s eyebrow quirks up. You’ve been thinking for so long that the silence is noticeably dragging.

As a last-ditch effort, you say, “What about that board game I got in Martinaise? Suzerainty. Bet I can beat you this time.”

Kim hesitates.

Oh, no. He’s trying to let you down gently, isn’t he?

“Maybe another time,” Kim says. He looks like he wants to say something else, but he only taps the ash from his cigarette and says nothing.

“Have to go over your notes?”

“Mhm.”

It shouldn’t, but the let down stings a little. But Kim’s not your keeper, is he?

You’re a grown-ass man, you can deal with rejection.

“Yeah, another time then,” you mumble. After a beat, you add, “I really can’t convince you to do anything with me tonight?”

Kim looks at you for a long moment, the overhead lights reflecting off his glasses. “I didn’t say that,” he eventually says.

…Wait. What?

The suggestion almost slips past you like a fish in a strong current. It’s subtle. Easily played off as something else.

The ball’s in your court and you don’t even know what type of game you’re playing. “What did you have in mind?”

Kim cocks an eyebrow. A challenge. “You tell me.”

“There’s a Seolite restaurant a few blocks away, always open late. My place is just a few blocks past it. We could get a late dinner and…go over some notes at my place?”

It feels so juvenile and fumbling that you immediately want to cringe in emotional pain. Kim stares at you, an unreadable expression on his face.

It’s too late to take the words back, though.

After another minute, Kim drops the butt of his cigarette on the ground and extinguishes it beneath the sole of his boot.

“Alright. Lead the way, Harry.”


	2. Chapter 2

It’s dark out when you step out of Precinct 41, and a slight breeze has twisted its way between the surrounding buildings to ruffle your clothes. It carries the smell of brine, clearing the air of the day’s human residue and pollution and replacing it with the scent of a dark ocean. Later tonight, mist will curl its way into the quiet streets until the morning sun burns it off. 

There’s a companionable silence between the two of you. Kim is just a step behind, walking in tandem without a hitch. There’s a dynamic here you feel in your hindbrain, of moving forward with someone you trust with your life at your back. It’s a good feeling to have.

The restaurant is a hole-in-the-wall type of place, catering more to the resident Seolite population than any other nationality. The neon letters above the door except for one N burned out a long time ago, and were never repaired. It’s not an inviting place, but it tolerates those that go out of their way to find it.

Dora had hated it.

You immediately discard that thought and don’t look back to see what expression Kim is giving the shabby exterior before you enter.

It’s the inside- it’s the food inside that matters.

There’s an old lady manning the front, and by the downturn of her lips, you think she might know you. Her greying hair is pulled into a severe bun, and her silver earrings glint in the low light.

“Hello, good lady. A table for two-“ you realize mid-sentence how that sounds, “-two cops. Which we are. We’re cops.”

The lady’s face remains unimpressed. She leads you both back to a rickety table by the kitchen, and passes out two laminated menus. After a few minutes of decision making, and then some gesturing and pointing when a server appears, you get your food ordered, and it comes out quicker than a flash.

Kim eats like he works; perfunctory, and neater than you.

The din of conversation and the busy kitchen is making it difficult to talk over, and you’re finding it hard to settle on a topic you think will even get Kim talking.

But right now, you need all your faculties to even _eat_.

Kim had pointedly grabbed a fork instead of using the proffered chopsticks, but you’d taken them gamely. Turns out, you don’t remember how to use them. Another limp noodle slithers out from the chopsticks as you try to bring it to your mouth, and you awkwardly try to follow it down. There are damp spots on your shirt from other failed attempts.

Kim’s amused smirk has been growing this whole time.

“Ha, slippery little bastards,” you say, half-hearted. Surreptitiously, you glance around at the other customers to see how they’re eating with these things.

Kim produces another fork and offers it up.

When did he-? Nevermind, you don’t want to know.

You take it wordlessly.

It’s only afterwards, when you have left the restaurant and your apartment building is in sight that you belatedly remember what your apartment looks like.

It looks like shit.

You miss a step, but recover before you stumble. Oh no, Kim is going to see how you _live_.

It’s too late now; there’s no reasonable excuse that you could give at this point that wouldn’t make you look like an asshole, so you say nothing as you unlock the barred apartment building door and lead the way in. The hallway is decrepit, and the damaged walls and water stains are not hidden at all by the bad lighting. You can hear a baby wailing from inside one of the apartments. For Jamrock, this place is way above average.

Your apartment is the back corner on the second floor, a little quieter than on the ground level. Should you apologize now? Or own up to it and pretend you’re not bothered? You’re still trying to decide when you open the door to your apartment and drag your feet inside.

You scratch the back of your neck. “Sorry, wasn’t expecting company…”

Kim steps up next to you and looks around, hands clasped behind his back. You can’t tell what he’s thinking.

The living room is not an unhygienic mess like the kitchen is, but it is a mess. The living room is cluttered with the random detritus you always pick up during your cases – books are piled high on the coffee table, along with notes and news articles pertaining to current investigations. Coins and small baubles have washed up to the edges of every flat surface in here, and a few random pieces of clothing drape across the back of the couch and the worn armchair. The carpet hasn’t seen a vacuum in a long time.

“May I?” Kim asks, gesturing to the room. You nod.

Kim makes his way forward, gravitating towards the books first. He runs his hand over the spines as he reads the titles; things like _Beyond the Pale_ , _Memories from the Pale_ , and _Dick Mullen and the Paledriver_.

He definitely notices the theme. “Your ability to help find that hole in the world definitely makes more sense, now.” After a beat he adds, “Have you ever heard of the term 'call of the void'?”

Ah yes, first termed as _l'appel du vide_ _._ Like being somewhere really high and suddenly having the impulse to jump, or driving a motor carriage and wondering what would happen if you swerved into incoming traffic.

Wait, weren’t we talking about the pale?

What is the pale but just another void? It’s not so surprising that people looking for other types of voids to drown themselves in would find the pale interesting.

Kim has already turned his attention to the notes on the table, not expecting a response. His hand twitches – you get the feeling he wants to bring out his own notebook and compare ideas. You think he’s really going to rope you into more work talk when he looks up and catches sight of the bookshelf in the corner.

Oh no.

“Want some water or anything?” you say, trying to distract him, but he’s already bee-lining over to it. You quickly follow him.

Kim picks up the framed picture – one of the only ones you kept after the Dora purge – and holds it up. “Harry, is this you?” he asks, voice strained like he’s holding back laughter.

It’s a picture of you from your gym teacher days, back when you had just met Dora. You’re front and center, holding a basketball under your arm and grinning at the camera, posing. You’re wearing a tank top, high white socks, and short gym shorts.

Like, _really_ short shorts.

“Yes it’s me, you know it was the fashion at the time, give it-“ you try to grab the picture but Kim easily dodges you.

He tsks and gives you a shit-eating grin. “Oh, I know. That’s why I didn’t let anyone take photos of me back then.”

Oh, so _now_ the juvie side makes an appearance?

A part of you weeps a little at the tragedy – Kim posing as a delinquent and having to suffer through some of the worst clothing trends, and _no one_ thought to take a picture?

Kim admires it for another long moment. “You even had the headband,” he says, a small grin still on his face.

You subside and don’t try and grab it this time – you can deal with a little embarrassment if it makes Kim smile like that.

“Very disco,” Kim says, turning back your way. His eyes drop down and back up – he, he just gave you a _once-over_.

You both realize you’re standing close together at the same time, shoulders almost brushing, and Kim looks away to put the picture back onto the bookshelf.


	3. Chapter 3

There’s noticeable chemistry here, a realization so sudden you have to take a moment to let it wash over you.

You should do something about it. Isn’t this what you wanted in the first place?

Don’t fool yourself; you wanted anything Kim was willing to give. And you still don’t know what that is. The certainty you’d had about why Kim had agreed to follow you tonight has been muddled with the intrusion of reality and self-doubt.

You cut a glance over to the back of Kim’s head.

Kim sets the picture down and half turns your way, wrist still resting on the edge of the shelf. He’s noticed you haven’t taken a step back.

Time to test the waters. “Kim, did you find the smoker back in Martinaise attractive?”

It takes Kim a second to register the change in topic. He gives you a look. “Do you think every single woman you meet is attractive?”

You shake your head.

“Then no, I didn’t.”

You’d been hoping that question would throw him enough to not expect the follow-up. “Kim, do you find _me_ attractive?”

You’re honestly expecting him to give you a long-suffering sigh. What you’re _not_ expecting is for him to freeze for a split second, staring at you, before he remembers himself and immediately looks away. Your own eyebrows raise in surprise.

“ _Really_?” you ask. You can’t imagine how – not with your sallow skin and bulging pot belly.

But you can still almost feel the quick once-over Kim had given you. Kim _had_ made a comment about you a while ago, hadn’t he? “I do seem to recall a comment about my bicep, uh, _girth_.”

Kim coughs a little, and you could swear his ears are redder than they were before. “Khm. Yes, well…” he trails off.

It’s not often that he’s put off-balance, especially with something like this. Kim is a consummate professional; it would probably take a gun to his head for him to ever reveal personal information on the job. He’s definitely not used to other people figuring him out when it’s not on his terms.

Kim seems to collect himself and steps away, making a show of scrutinizing the rest of the living room.

This would be a bad time to mention your thigh is screaming in pain, isn’t it?

You’ve been ignoring it successfully for the past few hours, but you’ve been on your feet all day, and the recently healed wound still gives you trouble when the sun goes down.

Just thinking about it makes the pain worse, and your leg muscle spasms in warning.

You should sit down, immediately.

You must make a sound, because Kim looks your way.

“Don’t mind me, I’m just gonna-“ you take two very normal steps towards the couch and do not collapse onto it, “-sit down now.”

Kim’s eyes drop to the white-knuckled grip you have on your thigh, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s still for a long moment, gears turning in his head.

Finally, Kim sighs and unzips his jacket the rest of the way, shrugging it off. You silently freak out as he drapes it across the back of the armchair and busies himself with taking out his gun from its shoulder holster and putting it carefully onto the side table.

You’ve never actually seen him without a baggy jacket on. Kim seems to use them to look cool _and_ conceal his service weapon. He’s lean and wiry under the jacket; a fitness borne from working on the job rather than purposefully working out. Kim isn’t conventionally attractive, certainly; but the unconscious way he carries himself transforms his features into something compelling. You think you’ve always been attracted to cool self-confidence.

You tug on your tie to loosen it from its suddenly too tight hold around your neck. Sweat starts to form under your armpits.

SAY SOMETHING

“So how do you think-“ you start as Kim approaches, “-that the, the-“ Kim sits right next to you, a line of shocking heat at your side. He still smells of cigarette smoke. Kim reaches up and grabs your tie, proprietary.

The words die in your throat as he reels you in closer. “Stop talking, would you?” He sounds almost irritated about it.

NEVERMIND, DON’T SAY ANYTHING

There’s a second where he pauses, gives you a chance to pull away, but you definitely do not do that.

You tip forward and kiss him, bumping against his glasses before you get the angle right.

For a moment, everything is perfect.

It only takes a second for you to regret it.

_What did you want to happen here, Harry?_

Your bloated carcass and fragile sobriety are one step away from self-destruction, and now you want to drag Kim even more into the blast radius?

How _selfish_.

You can’t do that to him.

The after-effects of the fallout with the rest of your squad are still lodged in your vulnerable belly like shrapnel. After coming back from Martinaise, Jean had frog-marched you back into your apartment, and had stood watch, arms crossed, until you had poured all the alcohol in the apartment down the drain. It had seemed fitting, after you had done the same to his friendship.

You can’t promise you won’t do the same to Kim. He can’t save you from yourself, even though he makes you want to try.

“Harry?” Kim asks.

You realize you’ve pulled away, lost in thought.

“Do you think this is a bad idea?”

Damn, this is not a good time to bring this up.

Kim sits back, eyes guarded. “What do you mean?”

Best to be blunt about it. “I’m a fuck-up, Kim. You deserve better than-“

Kim holds up a hand to stop you. “Don’t you say one more word about who deserves what. I won’t hear it. You know as well as I do that it doesn’t matter.” He runs a hand through his hair and looks away.

“I didn’t know you before your memory loss, Harry. It’s unfair to expect me to treat you the same as the rest of your squad when I’ve only ever seen you do your job well. As for the rest,” he gestures to the apartment, “I’m here, aren’t I?” And he hasn’t run screaming from your mess.

“Did you have someone, back in the GRIH?” You almost don’t want to know.

“No, I didn’t,” Kim says. There’s a lot that goes unsaid there. There’s a faint smile on his face, sharp as a knife. It’s not a sign of amusement.

Lieutenants always have to put their work for the RCM first. Everything else, including outside relationships, has to come second. It’s not easy; you are a testament to that.

And for someone like Kim, well.

People have been beaten to death in the streets of Jamrock for less.

But working in the RCM is also dangerous; both of you have seen teammates die, and not gently – there’s no question about it. You could both die tomorrow and none of this would have mattered.

Kim doesn’t want you to put him on a pedestal. He wants you to trust that he knows what he’s getting himself into.

“Sorry, Kim. I understand.”

“Do you?” Kim asks. There’s the challenge in his eyes again – saying it is one thing, but he’s expecting you to act on it. He’s willing to help you pick up the pieces, but you have to be the one to tape yourself back together.

“Do-over?” You give him a disarming smile, the one you know used to work well for you back when you were handsome.

“Mhm.” Kim watches as you close the distance this time, your thigh twinging at the movement. His hands find their way to the lapels of your jacket as you lean into his space and kiss him again.

Maybe Kim sees you like he sees Revachol; some would write the loss off as too flawed and broken, but Kim sees something worth working for – grabbing hold of with both hands and working hard to make something out of it. It might not work, but that’s no reason not to try.

Maybe, for now, you don’t have to question this. You don’t want to.

Slowly, Kim falls back on the couch, and pulls you down with him.

You can’t help but follow.

Far away from the city of Revachol, the Insulindian ocean rises up into the air, an inverted waterfall of matter disintegrating into mist. It’s subtle, how slowly the pale envelops the vast expanse of the ocean, one small inch at a time. Inexorable.

And still, life continues on. In a dark alleyway near Jamrock, an RCM officer puts her hand on the chest of a corpse, haloed by flashing lights. Somewhere on the coast, two children are cocooned in worn sleeping bags, dreaming of things beyond their reach. In the morning, they will wake up together, hearts still beating.

The world will end one day, but it will not be today.


End file.
